Practices and Priorities
by moonlighten
Summary: May, 2007: As far as Scotland's concerned, some anniversaries do not need to be celebrated. (Scotland/France.) One-shot, complete. Part 29 of the Feel the Fear series.


_This was the first Scotland/France fic I wrote, back in February, 2010, after becoming inspired by an article about the formation of the United Kingdom. It was supposed to be a background pairing in the FtF series, with America/England and Prussia/Canada as the main ships, but after writing this and a couple of the later Scotland/France fics in the series, it somehow became my OTP and took over everything..._  
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1st May, 2007; Paris**

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"I meant to ask before, but shouldn't you be out celebrating tonight, instead of here with me?" France asked, handing Scotland a glass of wine as he sat down beside him.

Scotland took the glass, and drained half of it in two large gulps. France fought the grimace of distaste which wanted to curl his lips at the sight. In the past, Scotland had had a connoisseur's taste for fine wines, but those days were long gone. Now, his only concerns were a bottle's price – 'Don't turn your nose up,' was a familiar refrain whenever France visited the other nation, 'it was £5.99 at Tesco, so it can't be _that_ bad." – and its alcohol content. France always kept a few bottles of a lesser vintage set aside specifically for Scotland's consumption, but even they deserved far better treatment than being quaffed as though they were nothing better than Scotland's preferred cheap lager.

"Celebrating what?"

France swirled his own wine around its glass, and took a moment to savour the rich bouquet of blackberries, wild plums, and chocolate, before he answered. "Why, it's three hundred years to the day since you entered into union with _Angleterre_ and _Pays de Galles_, isn't it?"

Scotland's shoulders began to shake, but, thankfully, he put his wine down before he could spill any on France's pristine cream couch. "Are you serious?" he spluttered, voice croaky with barely contained laughter. "Bloody hell, I can't believe you think we'd do something like that."

France shrugged one shoulder. "You used to," he said.

"Aye, years ago, and only because England made us." Scotland swung his feet up to rest on the coffee table in front of him, barely missing the glass he'd just set there. The legs of his faded jeans were somehow splattered with dried mud, France noted with faint horror, despite the fact that he'd supposedly just spent the day sightseeing. "God, you make it sound like a wedding anniversary or something."

"Isn't it, though?" France asked, mostly because he had always taken a perverse sort of pleasure in watching any and all of the British brothers squirm, but also to indulge the petty part of himself that did not appreciate guests who failed to properly value his wine, dirtied up his furniture, and always brought him haggis no matter how many times he told them he didn't care for it.

Scotland's face contorted as though the words physically pained him to hear. "Political union, France," he almost whined. "_Political union_. They're my _brothers_, for fuck's sake. Don't be disgusting."

France did appreciate the flush creeping up Scotland's neck and bleeding across the line of his cheekbones, however. "Ah, come now," he said, smiling into his glass. "How many of us are actually related by blood? There's every possibility that they're no more your brothers in that sense than I am."

"They've always been underfoot, they irritate me more than anyone else has ever been able to, and I can't get rid of them. They certainly feel like my brothers. The thought of ever…" Scotland shivered. "As I said, it's disgusting. No offence, but I don't think I'll ever understand why you've always tried so hard to get into England's pants."

"Ah, don't be jealous, _mon cher_. I enjoy the challenge; the thrill of the chase, no matter how slim my chances of success. You know this."

"I'm not jealous," Scotland said, the deepening colour of his cheeks seemingly contradicting his words. "And don't call me that. Besides, you'd doubtless be chasing him until the end of time. England's pants are locked down tighter than Fort Knox."

They'd tiptoed around this subject many times before, and France had never got a straight answer out of Scotland. Nevertheless, it did not hurt to try again. "I've often thought it strange," he said, "that _Angleterre_'s so _puritanical_, especially since he no longer seems to care much about the church's opinion on such matters."

As per usual, Scotland simply sidestepped the issue entirely. "God, I can't imagine why anyone would want a relationship with either of them. I bet England would get all weird and clingy, and I _know_ Wales gets weird and clingy."

"I never mentioned anything about a _relationship_, Scotland," France said, raising an eyebrow.

"No doubt England would get really weird about that, too, because…" Scotland broke off with a snort, shaking his head. "Why are we even discussing this?"

France chuckled. "Because we were speaking of unions, and I can't be blamed for wondering how you sealed that particular one, given that you started trying to bed me from the moment we made our own alliance."

"Well, that was an entirely different situation," Scotland said, smiling slightly. "And I seem to remember that you didn't exactly put up much of a fight."

France inclined his head, acknowledging the truth of that. Back then, Scotland had seemed wild and exciting, like a force of nature, and France hadn't been able to resist being swept along in his wake. What he had never been able to understand, however, was why what should have been a brief, intense affair had lasted for as long as it had, and why he found himself drawn back to Scotland time and again over the years after it had ostensibly ended.

They had little in common, and wild and exciting had proven to manifest themselves most often as loud and boorish, coupled with a temper so short as to be approaching non-existence at times. He was handsome enough, especially when he smiled – even more so when the smile was one born of genuine happiness, though that was a vanishingly rare occurrence – but not outstandingly so to France's mind. And, most damning of all, his idea of romance was foreplay which lasted five minutes instead of two.

Scotland leant forward to pick up his glass, but put it down almost immediately and buried his face in his hands. "Fucking hell," he groaned. "Why did you have to start talking about my brothers having sex? It's stuck in my head now. I hope you weren't banking on getting on any tonight, because I wouldn't be surprised if I can never get an erection again."

France smirked, and slid across the couch towards Scotland. All minor quibbles aside, that was another challenge that he was perfectly willing and able to accept.  
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Scotland always left France aching and too exhausted for his usual post-sex routine – either a quick getaway to avoid being found anywhere he shouldn't really be, or simply a shower to freshen up, depending on the circumstances – as what he lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in both enthusiasm and stamina. As it was, France lacked the energy to do anything beyond crawl along the length of the bed to collapse beside Scotland and fling his arm across the other nation's stomach.

Scotland made a small noise that somehow sounded simultaneously both surprised and pleased, and pressed a quick kiss to the crown of France's head before running his fingers through his hair, gently carding out the tangles there.

Although France had never quite been able to put a name to how he felt for Scotland, Scotland's feelings towards him had always been an even more impenetrable mystery. Scotland had made a declaration of love once, back in the sixteenth century, not long before everything between them imploded so spectacularly the first time around. He had been drunk at the time, however, and raving like a lunatic about a lot of things that he had then denied immediately upon sobering up. It had never been repeated.

In the centuries that followed, they came together and parted more times than France cared to count. It used to be that years, decades – even a century at one point – would pass between their encounters, and then, for a few days, they would be lost to something akin to the passion they'd shared back when they'd first met, though it would never last more than a week at most. Yet, since the Great War they seemed to have – without ever discussing it or making promises of any kind – settled into some sort of routine. No matter who they spent the rest of their time with – which was a topic they never broached in any case – every few months or so, Scotland would visit Paris, or France Edinburgh, and there would be this.

France didn't know what _this_ was, except that it was… comfortable. He wasn't even sure what that meant – for him, for _them_ – or when anything approaching comfortable regarding a lover became something that wasn't completely horrifying to contemplate wanting every now and then.

Like most things pertaining to Scotland, however, he found it better not to question it too closely.


End file.
